


The Wolf of Baker Street

by madnina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, In a way, Season/Series 02, Sherlock Experiments on John, Werewolves, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2183343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnina/pseuds/madnina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was stranded without his clothes in a dark alleyway in south London at 4am in midwinter, and somehow, this was not the most ridiculous or outrageous thing that had ever happened to him.</p>
<p>On the other hand, Sherlock’s bloody experiment turning him into an out-of-control furry beast rampaging around London, was probably the new record-breaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a fic I've had in my head for a while, of John turning into a werewolf, and him and Sherlock having to deal with the consequences. I'm still starting out in the fan fiction writing world, so please leave some comments! Reader responses is what encourages me to continue writing! Thank you :)

John Watson was naked.  
  
He wasn’t too sure how he felt about that fact. There were a variety of options, really. They ranged from the physical (Freezing My Nads Off) to the overly emotional (List Of Reasons Why My Life Is Fucking Ridiculous) passing through the practical (Where Did I Leave My Bloody Clothes).  
  
John liked to think he was an experienced, wordly man. He wouldn’t call himself unflappable, but he was definitely very good at dealing with unusual situations. To follow Sherlock Holmes around London, you had to be.  
  
Was this a new record? He thought about it for a second. Getting arrested for walking around starkers would probably earn him another ASBO. Been there, done that. Ending up in hospital for hypothermia wouldn’t be anything new either. At least this time he wasn’t soaking wet and smelling like sewerage.  
  
So no. John Watson was stark naked in a dark alleyway in Bromley at 4am in midwinter, and somehow, this was not the most ridiculous or outrageous thing that had ever happened to him.  
  
On the other hand, Sherlock’s bloody experiment turning him into an out-of-control furry beast rampaging around London, was probably the new record-breaker.  
  
—  
  
It was definitely Sherlock’s fault this time. One hundred percent.  
  
If Sherlock was here right now, he would be in a strop, because John would (justifiably) be saying “I told you so”. But Sherlock would never admit to it, so he would probably sulk instead.  
  
They had been at home. John had been feeling under the weather; a nasty bite from a drug smuggler’s oversized wolfdog was inflamed. They’d arrested the smuggler but his dog had got away. John hadn’t even thought about the dog afterwards. He should’ve seen that it wasn’t normal.  
  
They’d joked about it. Fucking laughed about it. He had actually said: “Full moon’s coming up tomorrow. I hope I don’t go turning into a werewolf and rampage through London.”  
  
Sherlock had sneered. “I’ll arm myself with garlic and a crucifix just in case.”  
  
“That’s meant to be for vampires. Garlic and crosses are against vampires. It’s silver for werewolves.”  
  
“Oh, I do apologise. Clearly I haven’t kept up with the latest official guidelines for removal of imaginary supernatural creatures. Please, do share your invaluable insights, no doubts gained from that ridiculous movie the pagan yoga instructor insisted on dragging you to.”  
  
John ignored the cheap swing at his latest date and sipped his camomile instead. He went to bed early, feeling feverous. He had all the symptoms of a mild flu, except that the nasty bite on his leg was red and swollen. Over the night though it had subsided, so he thought nothing more of it, until Sherlock made him breakfast the next morning.  
  
John walked downstairs smelling something delicious. He stopped in view of the kitchen, absolutely stupefied. Sherlock had just prepared a glorious full English breakfast, complete with tea, sausage, beans, and toast. The table was actually set and he’d taken out the proper tea cups and cutlery instead of the mugs and mismatched forks they normally used.  
  
“What’s the occasion?” he asked warily.  
  
“I made breakfast,” said Sherlock, stating the obvious. “Does there need to be a special occasion for making breakfast?”  
  
John hesitated a second before cautiously sitting down at the table in front of his plate. There was something extremely strange going on.  
  
He thought of the last time Sherlock had made him any kind of food or drink.  
  
He picked up his teacup and plate and switched it with Sherlock’s.  
  
“Really, John. Your lack of trust wounds me.”  
  
John looked expectantly at his flatmate. Sherlock sat himself down, took a bite of toast, sipped his tea and opened the newspaper.  
  
Only partially reassured, John sniffed his own drink before putting it to his lips. It wasn’t their usual breakfast tea but something with _herbs_. He put it back down again.  
  
“Oh for God’s sake.” Sherlock reached over impatiently, took a big gulp of his tea and a forkful of John’s beans.  “Happy now?”  
  
John drank his tea and ate his breakfast, reading his own stack of daily papers. A few minutes passed quietly until he noticed Sherlock was looking at him intently. Annoyed, he put down his fork.  
  
“What are you doing, Sherlock.”  
  
“Your persistent belief that I am _up to something_ is frankly insulting.”  
  
“I’ve eaten your food and drunk your weird herbal tea. If you’ve drugged me - or both of us - with something, please tell me now so I can deal with it.”  
  
“John, I promise there are absolutely no drugs whatsoever in your breakfast. I’ve only used perfectly natural ingredients.”  
  
“Or any hallucinogens. Or psychoactive substances. Or-“  
  
“There is nothing unsafe or dangerous for human consumption in the breakfast I’ve made you.”  
  
“All right, all right, fine.”  
  
A moment passed.  
  
“A little thank you wouldn’t be amiss.”  
  
Refusing to be guilt-tripped for simply making use of his survival instincts, John got up and left the table.  
  
—  
  
It later turned out that it didn’t matter what Sherlock had or hadn’t put in the breakfast, because the inflammation and fever came back with a vengeance and John ended up hugging the toilet seat, feeling miserable.  
  
Thank goodness it was one of his days off from the surgery, so he allowed himself to wallow in bed, checking his temperature at regular intervals and praying he wouldn’t go over 40 degrees celsius, which was his limit for checking himself back into the hospital.  
  
By 3pm, the temperature had dropped back to 38 and he decided a shower was in order to get rid of the sweat. Opening his front door, he was faced with a bucket half filled with - yes, that was blood.  
  
John sighed. He’d just spent most of his day alternatively shivering, sweating, and vomiting. He wasn’t feeling nauseous right now but it could come back. Resigned, he grabbed the bucket and loudly dropped it next to Sherlock in the living room. The blood sloshed heavily and a few drops landed on the carpet.  
  
“I’m going to take a shower. Please stop trying to involve me in your experiments today Sherlock, I’m not in the mood.”  
  
John ignored the comments about staining the carpet and spilling samples and took a blissfully pleasant shower.  
  
Finally, as evening came round, he felt human enough to go downstairs again. It was half past seven. He nibbled on some dry toast, feeling it was a safe enough option for his stomach, and settled in for some telly. To his irritation, Sherlock was still behaving strangely. Instead of sitting down with John for a round of “Everyone Involved In This TV Show Is An Idiot” he was hovering by the window expectantly.  
  
John actively ignored his flatmate until, ten minutes later, Sherlock made a relieved sound.  
  
“Come on John, case!”  
  
John eyed his flatmate, eyebrows raised. “Seriously? A case, now? All of a sudden?”  
  
Sherlock was already grabbing his coat and scarf. “Yes, now! Right now. It can’t wait.”  
  
“I’ve been ill all day, Sherlock.”  
  
“This one won’t require any strenuous physical activity.” (That, as it turns out, was a massive lie.) “You had a mild inflammation, not dengue fever. Just grab your coat, come on.”  
  
John nearly refused. But he did feel completely better. Supposing he should probably get out of the flat at some point today, he followed Sherlock downstairs. The detective was on the pavement, looking up, muttering to himself.  
  
“It was here just a second ago.”  
  
“Shall I get us a cab?”  
  
“What? No. We need to go… This way.”  
  
John followed Sherlock around the street corner up the avenue. Sherlock suddenly stopped, staring at the moonlight, smiling slightly. “Ah, just as well. I was just verifying a hypothesis. It’s quite ridicul…”  
  
Sherlock’s sentence died as he looked back at John who had also stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide and clutching his shirt collar.  
  
John’s entire body was experiencing something completely new. One second he was feeling fine, much better; the next, he was filled with an indescribable feeling. His whole body was hot and cold and the same time, buzzing like ants and completely numb.  
  
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he managed to gasp, before leaning against a building corner to presumably overturn the contents of his stomach.  
  
It wasn’t nausea. It was worse. It was his whole body turning itself inside out. His heart rate had shot through the roof. It was like someone had injected him with a syringe-full of adrenaline.  
  
“John?” Sherlock placed a concerned hand on his back. John was bent over, hands covering his face. He tried to say something, possibly “call an ambulance.” Instead, what came out of his throat was something not human.  
  
Later, he’d compare this moment to what he’d seen in movies. There were always dramatic, drawn-out sequences of grotesque morphing from human to monster. In fact, the actual transition lasted mere seconds. It was no less awful. Everything around him disappeared; there was only his body, undoing itself. He cried out in horror at the feeling. It came out as a tremendous snarl.  
  
And then, just as brutally as it appeared, the infernal buzzing stopped. He felt fine again. In fact, he was alive with energy. He could hear, feel and smell - oh my God, _smell_ \- everything. It had been dark anyways, so the lack of colour in his vision barely registered.  
  
He turned around to look at Sherlock. He was surprised to notice that in the space of a few seconds, his flatmate seemed to have grown several feet. Wait, that wasn’t right.  
  
Sherlock also stank all of a sudden. The fragrance of his herbal body wash had just been multiplied by ten. John could smell their breakfast and tea and hints of his nicotine patches and pig’s blood and a hundred other things. He took a step forward to get a better sniff. Sherlock held his hands out and another smell emanated - perspiration mixed with adrenaline. Was that _fear_?  
  
John was so overwhelmed by the onslaught of information being processed by his nose that he didn’t even make sense of the background noise until he suddenly focused on it. Sherlock was talking to him.  
  
“- you need to give me some kind of sign John that you understand what I’m saying, John, can you recognise who I am, for God’s sake could you at least sit yourself down or make a noise!”  
  
Sherlock’s voice, while low and steady, was laced with an edge of panic. John yawned slowly and licked his lips in confusion. Sherlock stopped talking and made a small strangled noise. Something here wasn’t making sense, and the contagious stink of Sherlock’s fear was making him feel anxious. There was clearly a danger somewhere, but where? Whatever it was, John would protect his flatmate. He stepped closer to Sherlock, looking left and right for potential threats and letting a low warning growl escape his throat.  
  
Instead, Sherlock took a clumsy step backwards, and stumbled onto the floor. John naturally leaned in to help him back up. Sherlock's deodorant scent evaporated entirely, and his eyes widened in panic.  
  
John really was confused now. There was something very wrong and it was making him nervous. His whole body bristled.  
  
To his left, someone shouted indistinctly. John’s head snapped up. Three youths were standing fifty yards away, shouting at them angrily.  
  
“Oi! Get off him!”  
  
One of them lobbed his glass beer bottle in their direction. His aim was good; the impact hurt, glass shattering on the floor, but he could care less. He’d identified the threat; they were after Sherlock and him for some reason. He let out a warning snarl. _Go away_. Instead, all three youths started trying to hit him with various projectiles. Two more beer bottles smashed on the floor when he decided he’d had enough. His feet began to close the distance between him and the attackers. They shouted again and turned tail, sprinting away. John ignored Sherlock’s call (he’d be fine for a bit) and chased the three youths until they reached a main road where traffic was passing. It was incredibly noisy and the smells of thousands of people having walked past assaulted his senses. Part of him wanted to keep chasing but he figured they were no longer a danger.  
  
His first thought was to get back to Sherlock. But in the miasma of car exhaust fumes, asphalt, and people smells, he caught the scent of something far more dangerous.  
  
Up to this point, John had felt like, well, like himself. It hadn’t quite registered that something had happened when Sherlock exposed him to the moonlight.  
  
As something feral and wild and angry surged inside him, screaming RIVAL, John realised he wasn’t, in fact, himself at all. He was smelling things he shouldn’t be able to smell, and NOT seeing colours like he should be able to. He had just growled and chased after people on four legs - four paws. A look into a shop vitrine confirmed his worse suspicious, as two pointy ears, a massive black nose and creepy dark eyes with a light grey iris stared back at him.  
  
He bolted. He had to get away from the street where people were starting to give him funny looks. He ducked into a smaller street and kept running. A small part of him wanted to go back to Baker Street. But there was someone else in the driver’s seat now, and it was telling him very firmly that the rival smell was all around him and he had to get away. So he fled, from the Rival-Danger and the People-Danger and the danger of his own thoughts on what the hell had happened to him.  
  
—  
  
Running accross London for a few hours had calmed him down. He had no idea where he was now (some kind of industrial estate near a canal) but it was quiet and free of danger-smells. The moon was high in the sky, reflecting itself in the dirty oily water that lapped at the edges of the pier. It was soothing somehow and he finally sat down, chewing on a fat rat he had easily caught.  
  
As he entertained himself crunching the little bones one by one, he allowed himself to think on his predicament. Clearly he had changed into some kind of creature. The word werewolf seemed too ridiculous to apply to himself even though he supposed it was something like that. But he was in control of himself - more or less. He hadn’t hurt anybody - had he? He ran through his blurry memories of the past couple hours. No, nothing apart from the rat, he was reasonably certain. There were certainly a lot of other things he could be panicking about. He relegated them to the back of his mind to deal with later. Right now he was in a safe place, he had just had a small but reasonably satisfying meal (the fact that he’d eaten a rat was also pushed back for later thinking).  
  
There was one thing he needed to deal with now, and that was turning back into himself. Changing into this beast had been an unpleasant experience. He wasn’t looking forward to the reverse process, but he could hardly spend the rest of his days like this.  
  
How could he trigger the change? He had stepped in and out of moonlight several times since changing but that didn’t seem to affect anything. But if there was a trick to changing back, maybe it would be easier if he was in the shade.  
  
He moved himself to a quiet little footpath and sat himself down, thinking. In the movies they never told you exactly how the werewolf changed back, it just sort of happened. If he just wished hard enough to be human again, would it work? He licked his lips, still tasting of rat blood, and closed his eyes to focus. _Do it like Sherlock and his mind palace. Picture yourself as John Watson_. He thought of his body, his shoulder and its scar, of his hand tremor, of the slight layer of fat on his stomach he sometimes felt self-conscious about. He thought of his feet and his hands and how he’d clipped his nails two days ago, and of his face and the wrinkles that were starting to appear on it with age.  
  
The whole-body buzz that had thrown him into shock earlier returned, but he knew what to expect and welcomed it this time. He hung on to the wrenching sensation and he felt himself turning inside out, and opened his eyes and stared at his human hands and fingers with immense relief.  
  
“Oh thank God,” he said aloud. His breath made vapour in the air as he realised with sudden shock how cold it was.  
  
That was when he remembered he had no clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

He made a plan in his head. A list of to-do actions.

1\. Find clothes.

2\. Get back to Baker Street.

3\. Kill your flatmate.

His head now much clearer, he started ripping open the bin bags in a nearby skip, hoping there was something in there he could wear. He needed to put something on or he would freeze. Unfortunately, apart from a pair of kid’s trainers there was nothing even remotely wearable in the skip. Feeling disgusting, he emptied one of the cleaner big bags and tied it around his waist for at least a minimal amount of modesty.

He was tempted to walk out on the street like that, find a payphone, and call someone. Unfortunately the moon was still up, and he really didn’t want to risk changing back now that he was finally human-shaped again. As Sherlock had (somehow) figured out earlier this evening, exposing himself to moonlight appeared to trigger the change.

He started wandering in unlit back alleys instead, using the shade of the tall buildings around as cover. A few road signs told him he was in fucking _Bromley_. Certainly no chance of walking home, then.

He sidled into one corner, avoiding a moonlight ray like a motion-sensor alarm laser, and walked in on a homeless person sleeping on a pile of cardboards.

The gently snoozing man was wrapped in layers of coats and a sleeping bag. Next to him was a shopping trolley full of odds and ends. John felt guilty about stealing from a homeless person but he was shivering and needed something for cover. He quietly removed one of the mangy blankets from the man and wrapped himself in it. It barely covered his main body and he crouched down, trying to conserve his body heat. He couldn’t help his teeth from loudly chattering. The man stirred awake and blinked at him owlishly.

“S-sorry,” John articulated over his clenched teeth. “I need this or my nads might actually freeze and fall off.”

The homeless man didn’t reply. He stared at him some more, then huffed, sat up and took out a hand rolled cigarette from the front pocket of his tattered parka. He lit the cigarette and took a drag in contemplative silence, then offered it to John.

John had smoked before, years ago, mostly due to peer pressure. He hadn’t minded it so much but never did it often enough to really get addicted to the nicotine. Considering the circumstances though, it might be nice. He took it and sucked in, feeling the hot tarry smoke enter his trachea and lungs. Judging from the taste it also contained a small amount of weed. He breathed out and released a tightness in his muscles he hadn’t even been aware of till now.

He handed back the cigarette. The man stuck it in between his lips, then shimmied out of his sleeping bag and handed it over to John. John thanked him, too grateful for the kind gesture to mind the horrible smell. He tucked himself into it, glad that he wasn’t going to freeze to death tonight after all.

They stayed there sitting opposite each other while they smoked in silence. John looked up again to small bit of sky he could see from between the buildings. The moon was still out but a rather large cloud would be obscuring it soon.

Was this his life now? Hiding naked from the moonlight in dark alleyways and bumming smokes from homeless men?

No. He couldn’t start thinking about this. He had to get back to the safety of Baker Street and murder Sherlock first. How the bastard had figured out that moonlight would trigger the change was anyone’s guess. As far as John was concerned, werewolves were the domain of children’s storybooks and Hollywood. In fact, he still wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t just hallucinating the whole experience. The cold slowly numbing his nose and ears did feel very real though.

The moon was finally out of view. The homeless man took back his sleeping bag and exchanged it for one of his many layered jumpers and trousers. It was still freezing but John supposed he could stand it until he found a phone cabin. Once back on the main street, he briskly walked nearly a mile until finding, on the third try, a phone cabin which actually worked. Rubbing himself to keep warm, he dialled Sherlock’s number as a collect call and impatiently waited to be connected.

“John. Where are you?” John smiled. Trust Sherlock to instantly know who was calling him. Despite how angry John wanted to be with his friend, hearing his voice was a relief.

“Opposite the Morrisson’s, Denham Road, West Bromley."

“Can you take a cab?”

John looked at his mangy clothes. He was still barefeet. A cab would be lovely but he was realistic about his chances of both _finding_ one at this hour, and being allowed to get into it.

“Not really, no.”

“Then stay where you are.” There was a small pause. “Are you all right?”

“Freezing my arse off, but yeah, I’m in one piece.” John looked up at the sky again. The cloud was starting to move away. “Look, I can’t stay here in the open. I’ll be in the alley between the kebab place and the indian. Denham Road. I have to go, bring some clothes.”

“Yes. I’m on my way. John…”

“What?”

“Just stay where you are. I’ll be half an hour.”

John hung up and jogged back the quarter mile back to the alleyway. The cloud was clearing and he felt the now-familiar buzzing creeping up on him again. He ducked into the shade, out of breath and coughing, the cold air making his lungs hurt. The buzzing was gone, thank God. But so was the homeless man and his sleeping bag. John curled up on the flattened cardboards, feeling miserable.

Sherlock turned up after what felt like hours and definitely not thirty minutes. John was almost considering letting the moonlight change him again, because being covered in fur was definitely preferable to dying of hypothermia.

John discarded the smelly rags and gratefully put his own clothes and shoes back on. He got up and adjusted his jacket.

“Right. Let’s go home.”

Sherlock didn’t move.

“What?”

“Your…” Sherlock waved his hand in front of his face.

“Oh.” John wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Crusty bits of rat blood came off.

He suddenly realised what it must have looked like.

“I didn’t kill anybody, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he snapped resentfully.

“I know you didn’t. I’ve been searching for reports of animal attacks across London. There haven’t been any tonight. Come on, the cab’s just here.”

John instinctively began to follow Sherlock but froze as his foot stepped into the moonlight. It was barely distinguishable, outshined by the orange glow of the street lamp, but he felt the familiar dreaded buzz and pulled his foot back like it had touched lava.

He did not want to go back to four legs. He wanted to go home and shower and be John Watson.

“Sherlock!” he called out.

“What?” Sherlock looked at him, clearly not understanding what the problem was. There was a hint of impatience in his voice that sent John’s anger bubbling to the surface.

“You know bloody well what! You’ve been experimenting on me all day. You know what happens if I touch the light.”

“Light? What light?”

Sherlock’s deliberate obtuseness made something snap inside John.

“The bloody moonlight!” He felt stupid saying the words out loud, having to explain this. Sherlock knew. He was the one that had caused John’s change in the first place. “You knew this would happen! You deduced what was going on and you’ve been testing out your theories on me all day. The blood, the silverware. And what was in that tea? Was it monkshood? And then you dragged me out on purpose! Ooh, let’s try and turn John into a monster! How fun! Well, I’m not doing it. I’m not going out in the light and I’m not changing into that… that thing again!”

“John, calm down. I had no idea anything was actually going to happen.”

“Yes, you bloody well DID!”

“What difference does it make?”

“Your experiments turned me into a monster!”

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. “My experiments?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t plan this on purpose. You lied to get me outside and see if I’d… change.”

“I didn’t know that, John! How could I have possibly imagined that all… this… would happen? This should be completely impossible!”

“Why were you experimenting on me then? Don’t deny that you had _some_ idea!”

“All right, yes, it was a ridiculous theory, which I tested. You didn’t react to any of the stimuli I presented you with. There was not even a 5% chance that you would react to lunar refracted light. I didn’t expect anything to happen. I swear, John.”

“This is all your fault.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice was stressed and rough. John thought he really did look sorry. His hair was messy than usual and there were more lines under his eyes than usual. He felt his anger deflate.

“You could have told me what you doing.”

“You would have laughed at me.”

“Well, I’m not laughing now, am I?”

“Look, John. This isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

“No. I’ve been tracking any news or sightings all night. Nobody’s noticed anything suspicious. Mycroft hasn’t contacted me either, so you’ve managed to stay below the radar. Come back to Baker Street. We’ll figure something out."

“Give me your coat. I don’t want to change again.”

Sherlock handed his Belstaff to John. With the coat slung over his head, they briskly walked to the waiting cab and rode back to 221B in silence. It took a long time, and by the time they arrived the sky had covered and the moon was well hidden behind a screen of dark clouds.

 

—

 

If John’s last shower was blissful, this one felt like heaven on Earth. He lavishly soaped himself all over, relishing the slide of the shower scrub on his human skin. The water washed away the smell of old sweat, dirt, and London’s exhaust fumes, replaced instead by the lovely feeling of clean water and the glycerine-y, almondy perfume of his soap, with a hint of the lemony bite of the bathroom cleaning product-

John stopped scrubbing himself, startled. This was more olfactory information than he was used to processing. He turned off the shower, and took a deep inhale. God, yes. All those smells, lingering grassy sandalwood smell of Sherlock’s body wash and minty fluoride toothpaste. They each registered in his mind clear as day. There was other stuff too, fainter and older and farther away, that he could grasp at but couldn’t quite make out. He had definitely been not able to smell that much as a human before.

Panicking, he leapt out of the shower, dripping water everywhere, and stared at himself in the mirror. A startled, tired, but very human John Watson stared back at him. Right. No pointy ears or sharp teeth. But something was a bit off. He looked slightly grey. As if someone had toned down the colour saturation. He looked down at his and Sherlock’s toothbrushes. Sherlock had one of those fancy electric toothbrushes, normally white with green stripes. John had an ordinary one bought from Tesco’s which had been red.

Both toothbrushes looked an identical brown-reddish colour.

“Oh, Christ,” he groaned and covered his face with his hands. Fuck. This was still happening. Whatever it was.

There was a sharp knock on the bathroom door. 

“John?” 

“I’m fine.” He put his bathrobe on, patted his hair dry, and stepped out. Sherlock was standing outside, eyeing him with concern. Sherlock’s shirt from before was a dark royal blue. John noticed now how distinctly greyer it was.

“What happened?” 

“I can’t see colours anymore. Well, I can, but not as well as I used to.”

“Ah. Interesting. Any other changes?”

John inhaled and frowned. “I can tell you had a smoke." 

Sherlock smirked. “Well. I was worried about you.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to say to that. He thought of Sherlock’s words back in Dartmoor. I don’t have friends. I only have one. How worried out must Sherlock have been while he was running around London as a wild beast?

Wait, no. Why was he feeling guilty? Sherlock experimented on everything and anyone and thought it was perfectly normal.

“I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’m at the surgery. And when I get back, we’ll talk about this.”

John started making his way upstairs but stopped when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Seventeen hundred thirty two.”

“What?” 

“Five thirty two. PM. That’s when the moon rises tomorrow evening.”

“Ah. Yeah.” God. Was this going to be permanent? Was he going to have to spend the rest of his days worrying about lunar cycles? “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, John.”

John felt Sherlock’s gaze follow him as he made his way upstairs. He collapsed on his bed (God-awful artificial ocean smell from the detergent, was he going to have to switch washing powder now?) and fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

—

 

Going into surgery the following morning was torture.

Everything assaulted his nose: the bitter tang of antiseptics, the lingering acid of cleaning products, the latex gloves even, and the people - God. Lydia’s usually discrete perfume in reception made him gag. Some patients appeared to ignore the existence of deodorant altogether. He had to take regular breaks to just go outside and clear his nostrils with fresh air.

By the afternoon it was a bit easier. Either his sense of smell was dulling or he was just getting used to it. He tried focusing on his patients, discreetly inhaling as he examined them, wondering if he could detect their ailments by smell alone. Some were indeed noticeable (although such a bad case of athlete’s foot would be smelled by anyone in the room); internal problems, not so much, although John did wonder whether the sickly, sweet smell coming from a rather deep cut on an kitchen chef’s finger did not mean an infection was developing, and prescribed antibiotics just to be on the safe side.

The dulling of colours was disappointingly easy to get used to, and he reminded himself that colour blindness affected men everywhere and was nothing out of the ordinary. It just meant paying slightly more attention to the signs on the Tube and taking care what shirts he picked in the morning.

It was still a lot to process and John gratefully sank into his armchair when he got back to Baker street that afternoon. He took the Union Jack pillow, smelling so much of him and Sherlock and of home, and stuffed his face in it. Breathing in the comforting smells was like resetting his brain, and he felt himself relax and sighed in relief.

He heard Sherlock walk in from the kitchen. He was wearing safety goggles and gloves.

“I’ve devised a series of control tests with-“ 

“No.”

“Three repetitions each time for-”

“Sherlock, no. I’m tired.”

“This is paramount, John. It’s clear the change from yesterday has some lingering side effects. We’ll start by repeating exposure to possible sensitive materials. I’m using the standard protocols for allergen testing, it’s perfectly safe.”

“I really don’t give a rat’s arse about protocols. I’m going to my room.”

“John, we have no idea what substances you may react to. Clearly the tests from yesterday were inconclusive because the effects of the change only took hold after you shifted. If there are materials that are toxic and potentially lethal to you now, we need to identify and catalogue them. I’ve developed a risk assessment based on type of exposure, length, and potential lethality.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Enjoyment has nothing to do with it. It’s simple common sense. I need data on what substances can potentially harm you so I can keep you safe.”

Sherlock had said the last bit with a completely straight face. John felt himself blush. Of course, he was being a complete arse. Sherlock must have spent the entire day worrying about this.

He relented and followed Sherlock into the kitchen, sitting down in the offered chair. There was an array of liquids in test tubes, organised in a grid on the table.

“I need you to tell me as soon as you feel any kind of peculiar sensation, even if it isn’t necessarily painful.”

It turns out John was indeed allergic to some of the things. Surprisingly, the pure silver did strictly nothing to him; but a silver fulminate solution caused an immediate rash on his skin that itched and burned for hours after, even though Sherlock had wiped it off after only a few seconds when John has begun experiencing a slight sting.

 

John quietly ate dinner while Sherlock typed up the results. He didn’t feel any different. He didn’t have cravings to shift and kill things and bathe in the blood of the innocent. He was fairly hungry but he’d barely had any lunch, so that was nothing out of the ordinary. The changes in his life were bothersome but manageable. There were many advantages to his enhanced sense of smell. If he had to live with this for the rest of his life, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Well. Except for one thing.

“I’ll miss not being able to go with you on night cases,” he mused out loud. 

Sherlock didn’t even stop typing.

“I don’t see why you should miss any of them.”

John set his mug of tea on the table. “You must be joking.”

“Certainly not. I imagine you have just as much use on four legs than on two. Actually catching suspects will be incredibly easier, although it’s a shame you won’t also be able to carry the Sig.”

“You’re completely mental if you think I’m turning into a monster again.”

This time, Sherlock turned away from his computer screen and looked at John. His eyes were narrowed and unforgiving.

“And what, exactly, do you expect will happen? Lock yourself inside every time the moon rises, for the rest of your life? Don’t be ridiculous, John. While I certainly advise caution until the parameters of your condition are more fully understood, and I haven’t entirely ruled out the possibility of a cure, there is no need to condemn yourself to a life of fear and denial. This incident has opened up a world of possibility. In fact, I consider it an incredible stroke of luck that we have fortuitously come upon this.”

“Luck? You think this is lucky?”

“John, we have just discovered that werewolves exist, and that you are one. Do you realise what this means? I’m focusing on your condition right now, but I’ll also have to re-evaluate other myth and folklore with a fresh eye. Who knows what actually exists out there. What-“ 

Sherlock stopped talking as the mug smashed against the wall in a fracas of ceramic and tea.

“ _This_ is not lucky.” John was breathing heavily and could feel anger boiling in his veins. “I am not an experiment. My whole life is now affected because of this. I’ll deal with it, because shit happens, and I choose - God knows why - to risk my life running around with you on cases. But it’s my life and my choice, and I am not turning into a monster again.”

He was expecting Sherlock to ignore or dismiss him. Maybe even (in his dreams) to apologise. But he didn’t expect his flatmate to look at him with cold, narrow eyes, stand up, and walk right into his personal space with sparkling hostility and disdain. 

“You are a werewolf, John Watson. It’s happened whether you like it or not. I anticipated you to have some difficulties with adjusting, but I didn’t think I would get outright denial denial instead. How unexpectedly obtuse of you. I’ve come to expect better, even from a mediocre mind like yours.”

Sherlock punctuated the last sentence with a condescending smirk.

He wish he could say what happened next was pure reflex. But he knew exactly what he was doing as his squeezed his hand into a fist and punched Sherlock squarely in the face.

The moment of triumphant anger was showered cold as he realised what he’d just done.

“Oh my God. Sherlock, I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

Slightly dazed, Sherlock put his hand to his cheek. That would make a bruise tomorrow. He gave a satisfied smile.

“Fine. And pleased to notice that you’re still in full control of your faculties.”

“Control? I just punched you!”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t see how that’s reassuring.” Maybe he wasn’t in control as he thought he was. He checked his hands and ears to make sure he was still human.

“I invaded your personal space, demonstrated hostile body language and insulted you. You reacted exactly how John Watson - or any human male, really - would have reacted. Despite the enhanced senses you appear to retain full control of your mental faculties, even under stress. Reassuring, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re insane, Sherlock. Why would you deliberately do that? What if I’d… changed, and hurt you?”

“I’d have managed.”

“Managed how?! Buy me a collar and leash? It’s not a dog I change into.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and went back to his computer instead. John sighed and went to pick up the remnants of the destroyed mug. It didn’t feel like he was in control at all. It felt like Sherlock was ploughing forward in his scientific discovery of the werewolf condition and neglecting to inform John of either his findings or his future plans.

Perhaps diplomacy might get some better results.

“Look. I appreciate you’re excited to find out about this and trying to help. But I need you to keep me in the loop, Sherlock. This is me, my body it’s happening to. I need to know what you’re thinking about planning. Just… keep me in the loop, okay? I won’t get mad.”

Sherlock gave John one of his famously inscrutable looks. It had been nearly a year and John was getting good at reading his flatmate’s facial expressions, but this was the purposefully closed face that he hadn’t yet learnt to decipher.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s hands came together under his chin. 

“As I said, there’s still a serious lack of data. Today’s exercises have proven helpful but the information is secondary. What I really need to know is the shift. How it happens. We know it’s triggered by refracted light from the moon, but the reverse isn’t true. How did you manage it?”

“I just… thought about being human. Pictured it. All the little details, you know? Nails, and hair and stuff.”

“So you can change back to human at will.”

“I suppose I can.” John breathed out. It was true. It hadn’t been hard at all to turn back into himself. It hadn’t even hurt.

“Do you think you could also trigger the change right now, of your own free will?” 

John closed his eyes. Part of him was still reeling in fear at the idea of changing his own body into something else. It wasn’t natural, it shouldn’t happen. But this was his life with Sherlock. Strange and weird and unexpected things happened all the time. This was only marginally crazier than their usual shenanigans. He thought again about being on all fours and running through the darkened streets of London. After the initial moment of panic, it had felt… good.

“I think I could.”

A smile drew itself on Sherlock’s face. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes and John felt confident that he’d given the right answer. This was a new adventure. They could do this. Together. Sherlock was a crazy, irresponsible madman. But he was his madman. And John was just as crazy to be following him.

“Shall we try now?”

John answered without missing a beat. “Yeah, all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now! Sorry this took me ages to finish. I do plan on writing more, sometime in the next few months! Were!john is my favourite thing ever and I can never stay away from writing him for too long.
> 
> Thanks to [constantlyfreemaned](constantlyfreemaned.tumblr.com) for checking it over and encouraging me to keep going on this :P


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